Practice On Me — Part Two — Azriel x Reader.
Summary: Azriel comes back for a little more practice. But this time, he wants to learn more than just kissing.
Word count: 7k.
Warnings: Some violence, injury detail, mention of blood. Smut 🌶️ some touching and fingering 😏
“Is that painful?”
“A little. Keep going.”
Rhysand’s hands are gentle when, a week later, you lay face-down on his couch, naked from the waist up. You wince as his fingers skate over jagged, poorly healed scars. You can picture the look on his face without needing to glimpse it; pursed lips and a furrowed brow and barely contained rage.
But he doesn’t let that rage seep into his hands as he smooths a pleasant, cooling salve into what remains of your wings. Which isn’t much.
“Sorry,” he murmurs at your slight jolt. “Almost done.”
There are very few people you will trust with touching your back. It’s too personal for you to visit the camp healer for such treatment, however trained and skilled he may be. But Rhysand—
“I swear to you, Y/N.” His voice is deep, stoic, warm breath fanning your shoulder. “When I’m High Lord, this will be outlawed. Females will not go through this under my rule.”
He promises it every single time he helps you with this. And he means it. Which is why you trust him implicitly with the act.
“I know.” You murmur against a couch cushion. “Thank you.”
“All done.”
As he wipes his hands on a rag, you ease yourself into a sitting position, clutching your shirt to your bare chest. As always, a crackling fire breathes heat into Rhysand’s mother’s home, and the feeling is pleasant, soothing.
“I haven’t seen your mother recently.” You mention, waiting for Rhys to turn around so you can slip your shirt on. It’s not that he hasn’t seen more private parts of your body over the years, nor that you particularly care, but he does you the courtesy, anyway. “Is she well?”
A soft, loving smile curls at his lips. “She is.” And then the smile widens into a full-blown grin. “My father wants her closer to home. She’s with child.”
“Seriously?” You blink, and then you’re throwing yourself at Rhys, sheer happiness and excitement filling you. “Rhys, that’s amazing. You’re going to have a brother or sister.”
“Sister, I hope.” He snorts, squeezing you, and yet also minding your still-bare back. “We need more girls around here.”
“Well, boy or girl, you’ll be the most incredible big brother. I just know it.”
And you absolutely do. Rhys has always been that sort of presence in your life; caring and loving and protective. Stern sometimes. A shoulder to cry on. A giver of warm, much-needed hugs.
You lean into one of those hugs now, not caring nor thinking about the fact that your top half is naked and pressing against him. That is, until the front door opens behind you, sweeping a gust of icy air indoors.
You turn just in time to see Azriel kick the snow from his boots. And then he pauses in the doorway, staring between you and Rhysand.
There’s been no mention of the kiss that night a week ago. Things haven’t been strange nor awkward. Just…normal. As if it never happened.
You’ve combed over it in your mind a little, though. Maybe more than a little.
“I told her the news.” Rhys announces, pulling away from you. A beaming grin still lights up his face.
Azriel’s mouth immediately tilts up, matching his enthusiasm as he smiles at you. “Exciting, isn’t it?”
“Oh, incredibly.” You shrug your shirt on. “I’m bound to get far more stimulating conversation from a newborn babe than I do from you three idiots.”
Rhys swats you and Azriel snorts, and then you’re pushing to your feet and heading towards the small kitchen area. “I’m making tea. Do either of you want some?”
“No, I’m heading out to visit my mother.” Rhys stands. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like, though.”
“Give her my love.” You tell him.
Azriel dips his head. “And mine.”
With a chipper goodbye, Rhys is dipping out of the cottage. Shutting the door behind him seals the heat inside once more, and already you have some soothing release from the pain in your upper back.
“Tea?” You offer again over your shoulder.
“Please.” Az approaches you from behind, stopping mere inches away to tie the strings at the back of your tunic. “Cass won’t be joining us. He ran into Sacha on the way here.”
You snort. Cassian’s most recent fling is coming up to a week-long stint, now. It won’t be long before cracks begin to show, and the whole thing is called off, and another female or male takes Sacha’s place. Rinse and repeat.
“I wonder which one of them will break it off. My money’s on Sacha.” You ladle a generous helping of sage tea into two cups and hand one to Az. “How are things with Kaeda?”
You can’t lie — you’ve wondered it a fair few times over the past week. Which is only natural, right? To question if the…help…that you gave Azriel was of any use. But so far, he hasn’t mentioned a damn thing.
He takes a long, pensive sip of his steaming drink. And then shrugs. “I’ve not really had the chance to see her.”
Immediately, you cock an eyebrow. Because Az seems to have had plenty of time for you and Rhys and Cass over the last seven days. Even spared one of those days to fly you to the local market to pick some things up for your father. It hasn’t been a particularly busy week for any of you — slow, even — and you’re almost positive he’s had a spare few minutes to land a kiss on his romantic interest.
Leaning your back against the wall, you shoot him a look. One that says, that’s not going to fly with me, Shadowsinger. “Wanna try that again?” You say. “The truth this time, please.”
He sighs, pressing back against the opposite wall. It must be so annoying for him that you can read him so well. Azriel doesn’t like being read. At all.
“I’m just…not confident enough yet. So, I’ve been avoiding her.” He admits. “I think I need more practice.”
You stare at him. Study him. You’re not sure if he’s implying what…what you think he might be implying. “You’re a good kisser, Az.” You tell him. “Trust me.”
The firm, truthful tone of your voice has his cheeks reddening slightly. He lowers his gaze to the floor. “But I don’t feel like one. And that’s the key to it all, isn’t it? Confidence. I’m just not there yet.”
Fair enough, you think. He’s not wrong. But the direction in which this seems to be going has your heart doing a strange, anticipatory flip in your chest.
“So…” You drag the word out. “Are you asking to practice on me again, or? Because I can totally steal one of the sparring dummies from the training ring and guide you that way—”
“Forget it.��� He cuts your teasing off with a roll of his eyes.
“No, wait, I’m sorry.” You bite back a laugh. “I’m taking it seriously, I promise. Tell me what you need.”
He purses his lips, eyeing you for a long moment. You allow him to do so, even if it makes you feel a little naked.
“All I know,” he says, “is that I’m comfortable with you.”
The words are…strangely heavy. Vulnerable. He means them, and you know that, but they’re so weighty that for a moment, you can’t speak.
You suppose you’re so accustomed to your friendship with him — the familiarity and comfort of it — that you don’t think too often about how good it feels to be such a support for somebody. It makes you feel good. Useful. You want to always be able to help him like that.
So, you know you’d offer him anything, do anything he needs.
“If you need to practice on me some more, Az...” Your voice is strangely raspy. “I’m right here.”
He swallows. “But I don’t want it to seem like…like I’m using you.”
“It doesn’t.” It really doesn’t. You keep it to yourself that you need this in your own, little way. “I’d tell you if I felt like that.”
His eyes scan your face, and he seems satisfied with the truth that’s displayed there. He licks his lips and swallows and shifts from foot to foot. And then he says, simply, “Okay, then.”
And you guess this is happening right now, like it happened right then a week ago. So, you place your mug of tea on the counter and push away from the wall. Azriel does the same.
He steps a little closer. Pauses. “Do I need to do anything different to what I did before?”
“No.” You answer, probably a little too quickly. “No, you were great.”
He blushes again, and he seems to be fighting the urge to look away. But he maintains the eye contact like a champ and closes the space between you.
His scent, his warmth, is like a blanket that’s draped over you. You want to wrap yourself inside it, build a fort out of it, hide in it.
Azriel’s hands tremble as he lifts them to your face. He seemed to enjoy that last time — the feel of your skin beneath his. You enjoyed it, too. You tilt your head up just a little.
His thumb makes contact with your cheekbone, brushing a gentle sweep over the area. He leans down—
But then the door flies open, and a snow-covered, pissed off Cassian stomps in.
“Sacha and I are finished.” He announces, not seeming to notice yours and Azriel’s compromising position. “Let’s go to the mead hall.”
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The mead hall is packed and noisy, exactly how Cassian wants it. He’s in a foul mood, and so a higher volume of people means he has a good choice of who to pick a fight with.
When he gets like this, there’s not really any stopping him.
Luckily, your father isn’t there tonight, so you’re comfortable sitting wedged between Az and Cass without his paranoid, judgemental stare. But you don’t want to be here — the males are too drunk and boisterous, and you seem to be one of very few females present. It makes their leering gazes far more apparent.
“It was a total misunderstanding.” Cassian says from beside you, leaning over you a little so that Az can hear, too. “Yes, I might have called her the wrong name—”
“I would have thrown you out on your ass, too.” You cut him off, rolling your eyes. “At least know the name of who you’re fucking before you dive between their legs.”
“I do know her name. I just got confused—”
He stops mid-sentence and looks up as, from behind, a pair of rough, meaty hands land on your shoulders and squeeze. You immediately recoil at the touch, turning to glimpse the mammoth of an Illyrian male whose name you think is Tanin. Not that you care.
He stinks of ale and sweat as he leans down and smells your hair. You tense. Cassian tenses. Azriel tenses.
“Y/N, Y/N, Y/N.” Tanin slurs. “When are you going to let me dive between your legs?”
And there it is. Cassian’s excuse for a fight.
He’s out of his seat and on him quicker than you can even register, slamming Tanin down on the adjacent table amidst plates of food and goblets of ale. Blood goes flying as he pummels his fist into the bastard’s face, and then he’s grabbing a goblet of ale and pouring it over Tanin until he’s coughing and spluttering.
“How about you wash your filthy fucking mouth out?” Your friend snarls, diving in to land another punch. “Piece of shit.”
You turn to Azriel in mild alarm. Usually, he would have jumped in by now, pulled Cassian off before he can do too much damage. But the shadowsinger merely watches the affray with something akin to satisfaction on his face. You sigh in exasperation. This will quickly get out of hand.
“Cass.” You stand, reaching for your friend. “Cassian—”
But your voice is barely heard beneath all the yelling and jeering, and then Tanin is fighting back, landing a hit on Cassian so hard that he stumbles backwards — falls into you and knocks you to the floor, right amongst the gathering, boisterous males.
There’re feet everywhere in all directions, catching you in the side and stepping on your hand and knocking you back down whenever you try to get up. Suddenly, the fight is no longer between Cassian and Tanin. Males are punching each other for the sake of it, and more and more of them join in, not even knowing why they’re brawling. It’s the Illyrian pastime.
Just before another foot can swing into you, you’re aware of strong arms lifting you and plucking you straight from the centre of the chaos. Azriel shoves a drunken lout who backs into you, and then he’s dragging you away, his eyes fierce and blazing.
“You’re alright?” He asks over the shouting, his gaze roving your dirtied, creased tunic.
Your hand is throbbing from being stepped on, but the ache is already dulling. You nod. “I’m fine. Where is Cass?”
“Here.” Cassian suddenly appears behind you. His hair has mostly escaped the knot he’d tied it into, and his lip is badly split, blood gushing down his chin. He spits some onto the floor, and his words are thick and almost unintelligible as he cups his mouth and says, “Pieth of thit got me good.”
You scowl, knocking his hand away to grip his chin. “Serves you right. That fight was completely unnecessary.”
“I dithagree.” His eyes glitter, but then he grimaces and pulls away to spit more blood out. “Dammit. I think I need thitches.”
He definitely does. The gash in his lip is deep and pouring. And with the fight still merrily going on around you, it won’t be long before someone tries to drag him back into it. And Cass will happily oblige.
“Go to the healer and get that seen to.” Azriel tells him, not unlike a stern parent. He grips him by the shoulder and steers him out of the door, dragging you with him by the other hand. “And then sober up. I’m taking Y/N home.”
“And apologise to Sacha.” You add.
Cassian grumbles, but the fact that he doesn’t protest is a positive. He can sometimes be so stubborn that it makes you want to split his lip yourself. It would seem he’s had enough drama for one night.
“Fine.” He spits blood onto the dirt path. “Maybe Satha will take pithy on me.”
The fact that neither you nor Az agree is downright hilarious. But nor do you correct Cassian’s drunken, skewed thinking. Nights like these are a common occurrence, and to some degree, you just have to let your friend get on with it.
Cass turns, and you catch him quickly by the hand. “Thank you.” You tell him, because he was defending your honour, after all. “Love you.”
He grins a bloody grin, and then winces as it tugs at the wound. “Loveyouthoo, thweetpea.”
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You don’t feel like going home and facing your father tonight, and with Rhysand’s mother’s cottage at your disposal, you don’t have to. It’s not unusual for you to spend nights away from home; usually he doesn’t care enough to even question it. But if he does, you always tell him the same thing — you spent the night with one of your many female friends. No males present. Such a little liar, you are.
But you’re content with that lie as you sink into the couch, your eyes flicking over to Azriel in the kitchen. He stirs a cup of tea silently, pensive as always. He’s asked about your wellbeing at least seven times since you stepped through the door.
You’re fine, you’ve answered each time, and it’s true. With him, you’re always fine. It doesn’t stop him worrying, though.
His footsteps thud against the floor as he approaches you, and he holds out a steaming mug. “Drink this. I put plenty of honey in it.”
Your lips twitch into a fond smile, and you accept it, taking a warm sip. “I was on the floor for a matter of seconds, Az. I have a bruised hand, that’s all.”
He knows this, of course, but trying to get him to stop fussing would be like beating a dead horse, and you really don’t mind being taken care of, anyway. Azriel settles into the space beside you, kicking his feet up on the coffee table. You lean into his side.
For a few moments, it’s comfortably silent. And then he snorts softly. “Cassian’s going to have a hard time apologising to Sacha when he can barely form a legible sentence.”
You laugh, tipping your head back against his shoulder. “Maybe she really will take pity on him.”
“If only she’d been there to witness his gallant display of coming to your defence. It might have impressed her.”
“Or put her off him for good.”
“The heartbreak would drive him into someone’s bed, I’m sure.”
The two of you share another laugh, and then silence blankets the small cottage. You’re always content like this, just…existing with Azriel. No need to be a certain way or do a certain thing, like you have to in your own home. With your closest friends, you have the freedom of being yourself unapologetically.
You finish your drink, and then Az is pulling you down with him, his wing draping around you. You’ve fallen asleep like this countless times — with all three of your friends at least once — and it’s one of the few places you feel truly safe.
But as you lie there, basking in Azriel’s warmth, your eyes don’t grow heavy. Rather, they continuously creep over to that spot in the kitchen you stood in with Az earlier, your bodies inches from each other, your lips very nearly meeting but not quite touching thanks to Cassian’s abrupt arrival.
A strange sense of disappointment hits you. Disappointment that you didn’t get to feel that heated kiss a second time.
“I’m sorry about earlier,” you murmur, knowing Azriel is just as awake as you are. “That we got interrupted.”
He turns his face slightly, chin brushing the top of your head. “It’s not your fault that Cassian has terrible timing.”
Your shoulders shake as you give a little laugh. No, no it isn’t. But amongst your disappointment — which is selfish, really, because the kiss was never for your sake —you feel guilt, also. Guilt that you didn’t get to help Az, despite that being what he needed.
You tip your head back enough to look up at him. “I’m still happy to help, you know. The offer is still there.”
For a couple of seconds, he merely stares down at you. His fingers absentmindedly twiddle a strand of your hair. And then he says, a hue of pink colouring his cheeks, “I still need the help.”
And in that moment, he looks so genuinely perturbed by his own inexperience that you can’t bear it. You’ll do anything, say anything, to put him at ease. To help him realise that these things are different for everyone. There’s no time frame he should be keeping to. Twenty years of age or thirty or forty or fifty, he could have come to you with these things worrying his thoughts, and there would never be any judgement. Only understanding. Only what he needs.
So, you slowly sit up, folding your legs beneath you and turning so that you’re facing him. “Would you like to practice now?”
He eyes you and swallows. And then he nods. “I would.”
You offer him a reassuring smile. “Come here, then.”
Just as you had, he pushes himself up into a sitting position. You can tell he’s tense by the way his wings fall about him; his shoulders squared. You reach for his hand and squeeze it gently.
“We already did this once, Az.” You remind him. “Just do what you did before.”
He nods — more to himself than to you. And then he’s scooting closer. His palm settles at your jaw.
He doesn’t go in for the kiss immediately. You allow him to do whatever he needs to do, whatever feels right. He seems content, for the time being, with dancing his fingers over the skin of your cheek, your jaw, your neck and the shell of your ear. His hand, scarred and callused, climbs and falls, explores each area with rapt attention. He takes note at the way your eyes momentarily flutter closed — an inadvertent reaction to his fingers skating over the pulse point of your throat.
“Is that pleasant?” His voice is deep, husky.
“For me, yes.” You clear your throat. “But I suppose not for everyone. Everybody has sensitive areas. That’s one of mine.”
You’re shamefully disappointed when, after a moment, his hand moves back up. It finds its place at your jaw again, and Az cups your cheek.
“Okay,” he whispers, and leans in.
There’s no chance for you to utter a word as he dips his head and presses his lips to yours. This time, there’s no quick, chaste peck to test the waters. Azriel dives straight in, capturing your mouth in a kiss that robs the breath straight from your lungs.
His mouth paws at yours, and you give yourself to the sensation, submitting fully to the practice. You want Azriel to take what he needs — to get a desired result from this — but as you kiss him back, you can’t help noticing the stiff, tense set of his body.
He’s not relaxed, not at all, and it shows. Something about this is bothering him, holding him back. Nerves, probably. Maybe even second thoughts. Whatever it is, you want him to communicate it, be honest about it.
So as much as you really, really don’t want to, you pull away, your face hovering a mere hair’s-breadth from Azriel’s. He seems to blink, and he licks his lips and stares at you with unguarded concern in his eyes. You know he’s already thinking a million things at once, wondering if he put a foot wrong.
“What is it?” You ask, making a grab for his hand. “You’re…tense. This is no different to what we did last week.”
Your friend stares back at you, conflict a war on his face. And for a split second, you start to think that he is having doubts, that he’s regretting having gone along with this.
And that…that would hurt. You’d understand, of course, because he’s your friend, and this is simply about helping him — but it would definitely hurt.
You don’t want to think too much about why that might be.
Rejection is never pleasant, you suppose.
“Az…” you chew your lower lip. “You can tell me. Whatever it is. If you want to stop this and just…talk…or do nothing at all…then that’s fine, too—”
“Kissing isn’t the only thing I’ve never done.”
The words leave him in such an abrupt gust that you’re stunned into silence.
You stare at him wordlessly.
Of course, it’s not that you haven’t considered that over the past seven days. Up until a week ago, you’d simply assumed that Azriel must have had a whole wealth of experience when it came to kissing people. And you’d turned out to be wrong. It wasn’t unusual to question whether there was more you didn’t know.
But you also knew perfectly well that sex didn’t require kissing. Az could have slept with a whole host of different people, and yet chosen — for whatever reason — to not kiss a single one of them. He could have built up knowledge and experience in plenty of other areas without ever having explored what many would consider to be the first step.
You’d considered that Azriel might not have any sexual experience. And then you’d surmised that he most likely had.
That, it would seem, is not the case.
He looks more uncomfortable than ever, lowering his gaze and rubbing at the back of his neck with his hand. You want to tell him that none of that matters, that it’s nothing to be embarrassed about, but the words simply will not come.
“I’m just…completely inexperienced. In every way.” He admits gravelly. “I’ve come close to doing things, but…I always overthink it. I don’t know how any of this is supposed to…to progress.”
Makes sense. It’s a daunting thing to explore, and even more so when you don’t trust easily. It’s perfectly reasonable that Az has protected himself from that pressure.
“Have you…” You clear your throat, desperate to make sure you’re handling this correctly, decently. “Have you ever done anything at all?”
His eyes flick up to meet yours. “I’m completely well-versed where my own pleasure is concerned, Y/N, trust me. It’s with another person that I have no fucking clue.”
Right. Got it.
Swallowing down a ridiculously huge lump in your throat, you give a slow, pensive nod. “Alright. Well…these things just…evolve naturally. One thing leads to another. The absolute worst thing you can do — with kissing or anything else — is overthink it. Do that, and it’s over before it begins. You just…follow your body’s lead and do what feels natural.”
Good fucking advice, if you do say so yourself. Azriel’s still-unsure expression is the only thing that stops you from giving yourself a well-earned pat on the back.
“Right. Follow my body’s lead.” Az sounds like he’s trying to convince himself. He clears his throat. “Can we continue?”
“If you want to continue, Az, we’ll continue.”
A small, soft smile lifts his lips, and it melts your heart a little. He’s genuinely grateful for your patience and understanding; you wonder if he truly knows that you’d give him, his kind heart, the entire world if you could.
But before you can sink too far into your mushy thoughts, Azriel’s hands are at your face once more, and he’s angling it up towards him.
You wait. Allow him to make the first move. He does.
He kisses you like your lips might disappear before his very eyes if he doesn’t. His mouth slants over yours, and that coiled tension is no longer making his body rigid and unnatural. He’s heeding your advice, relaxing into it, and this time, he doesn’t hold back.
His thumb sweeps your cheek, and his tongue sweeps your lip, and you’re opening up for him, allowing him to slip it inside to meet yours. At once, his taste is overpowering you, mixed in a little with the mulled wine he drank at the mead hall. It’s a song to your senses, and you’re desperate to hear it, feel it, from start to finish.
Perhaps that’s why you’re not really aware of the way your bodies move. Az is shifting on the couch and so are you, and while one of his hands remains at your face, the other moves down and slides gently to the scars on your back. It seems, for a moment, that he might tug you closer, but in one swift movement, he’s laying you down, and he’s tucked between your legs and hovering over you so closely. He cushions the remains of your wings, always concerned about your comfort.
Kissing him like this feels wildly different to kissing him sat up. It feels…intense and yet tender. Fast and yet slow. Like this could go anywhere and everywhere all at once. And part of you wonders if it should go nowhere. Perhaps you should stop. Helping Azriel gain confidence is one thing, but he’s your closest friend, and never before have you had your closest friend more or less lying on top of you, his body moving against you, while his mouth dances over yours.
Bizarre, really.
But you still continue to kiss him back.
Your hand moves up to cup the back of his neck, and you kiss him harder, graze your tongue over his lower lip—
He pulls his face away from you abruptly. Perhaps that was a step too far—
But something in the way he stares down at you, panting heavily, tells you it wasn’t.
“Where do you like to be touched?” He asks you, so gutturally that the words vibrate through you.
And they damn well catch you off guard.
You blink up at him, flustered, not sure you heard right. “I…what?”
Azriel then licks his lips. “I mean…where do you think Kaeda would like to be touched?”
Kaeda.
You’d forgotten about her. The reason that Az is even kissing you in the first place. Because he wants to be good for her.
The thought stings a little. You try to shake it off. “That…that’s something you’ll have to learn from Kaeda herself.”
He stares back at you. Studies your face. And he looks so…so genuinely daunted, that you search for something, anything, to put him at ease.
“But me…” You clear your throat. “I like to be touched in lots of places.”
He’s still staring at you in that strange, intense way. After a beat, he asks, “Will you show me?”
It’s your turn to stare at him then. You’re starting to think that perhaps the world has been turned on its head. You and Azriel, to each other, are familiarity and comfort. You’ve seen each other at your best and at your worst, been there for some damn near humiliating circumstances. This is the male who has bathed the blood of your own cycle from your skin and held your hair back when the cramps have turned your stomach. He’s listened to some of your most embarrassing stories without humour or judgement; just understanding. To him, you are an old, well-worn, well-loved pair of boots.
And he wants you to show him how to touch.
Never, under a million fucking sunrises, could you have predicted this would happen between you.
But you’re not recoiling from the request. You’re just…surprised. You’re not balking from it, nor running out of there screaming.
Nor has Azriel ever balked when you’ve asked for his help, his guidance. Not once.
You angle your body up slightly, just to get a better look at him. And you study him a moment longer. “…Az, are you…”
“I know what I’m asking, Y/N, and I’m sure.” He says without pause. “Show me how a female should be touched.”
Suddenly, you feel like the nervous, inexperienced one. You can totally say no, of course — Azriel would put a stop to it immediately if you did. But you don’t want to.
You want to do this. Want to help.
Your hand cups the back of his neck once more, and then you’re tugging his face down, pulling his mouth onto yours.
The kiss starts out slow and soft. There will be no rushing this for either of you. It’s an exploration, a way to trace the maps of each other’s mouths. You’re both desperate to know more, feel more, before this goes any further.
So, you follow your own advice. You told Azriel to trust in his body, follow its lead, and you now do the same. You want this to progress naturally, like…like it isn’t a transaction. Isn’t something that you agreed on beforehand.
There is no breaking from the kiss this time, even when you’re panting into each other’s mouths. Azriel’s hand is firm and pleasant at your jaw, and your tongues are intertwined, and you’re kissing like you want this specifically with each other. A fact you will not ruminate on,
You nip gently at Azriel’s lip, and this time, he does not pull away. He hums quietly — seemingly unaware of doing so — and applies a little pressure to your mouth. Kisses you harder.
And it’s then — then that you reach for the hand that’s settled at your jaw. You curl your fingers around Azriel’s wrist, and slowly, you drag that hand down.
You think you might be shaking a little, but you don’t give the nerves too much thought. Azriel allows you to guide him. His fingers brush over your neck, content to explore the soft skin there, but you keep that hand moving. The warmth of his palm permeates the fabric of your tunic, and the feeling is pleasant against your chest.
When you finally close his hand over the swell of your breast, you break away just to whisper onto his mouth, “I like being touched here.”
Azriel’s eyes bore into yours, heated and blazing. He swallows.
Clothed you might be, but there’s no undergarment between your shirt and your breast. The weight of Azriel’s hand falls heavy over the swell, and there may as well be no barrier of clothing with how delicious it feels.
His gaze remains on yours as he cups you in his palm. And then his thumb inches in, grazing over your nipple. You suck in a short breath at the contact, your back arching a little.
Azriel pauses. “Is…is this okay?”
“Yes,” you say, a little too quickly. “It’s more than okay, Az.”
A soft smile appears on his lips. You smother it with yours, pulling his face closer once more. You’re not sure if you’re supposed to kiss him again, or what you’re supposed to do amidst any of this, but it feels like the right thing.
This time, there’s no hesitation. Your kiss is hot and needy, and you find yourself bunching the fabric of Azriel’s shirt in your fist as he begins to more confidently explore your breasts.
He squeezes them, palms at them, traces the turgid peaks of your nipples, and you happily arch into it all. But then, without any guidance from you, his hand is leaving your breasts. Travelling down.
And you don’t breathe a word. You figure if he has a question, needs direction, he’ll ask. You kiss him as if you were always made for kissing him, and his fingers are dancing over your stomach, down and down.
“What…” he tugs his lips from yours, his fingers now at the waistband of your breeches, “what about here? Do you like being touched here?”
You stare up at him. And you’re supposed to be guiding him, aren’t you? So, panting, you fold your hand over his and move it down. Away from the waistband. Between your legs.
You fold his hand over the very centre of you. And you wonder if he can feel your heat through your breeches. It feels blazing to you, and torturously so. Like a fire has been lit between your thighs. You’re growing wetter by the second, and your scent must be filling the room.
“Here.” Your voice doesn’t sound like yours. It’s deep, smoky. “Right here.”
Azriel watches you closely. Watches your face as he applies pressure to your heat. His thumb presses down.
And you’re not thinking about his intense stare as a soft moan falls from your mouth. Your brow is furrowed, lips parted, and you want more.
“There?” The shadowsinger murmurs, repeating the action. Your moan is louder this time.
“Can you…” Already, you’re panting, but he’s not…not close enough. You grab his hand again, and you’re moving it back to your waistband. To the button on your breeches.
His eyes meet yours. He doesn’t need to be experienced to know what you’re asking from him. Sure, he could probably do this through your clothing, but surely skin-to-skin is better for his experience.
That’s what your selfish mind is telling you, anyway.
“You don’t mind?” Az asks. “I appreciate your help, but…I want you to be comfortable. I don’t want you to feel you have to do anything—”
“Azriel.” You clasp the back of his neck. “I really, really do not mind.”
For him, it will always be about making sure that you’re positive.
Your needy expression must tell him that you are.
You capture his mouth with yours, and this time, the moan comes from him. Kissing seems second-nature to him already. This one is fast and passionate and desperate, and yet he leans into it, gives himself to it entirely.
You don’t know how long you kiss for, but it’s possible that Az needs the time to build up to the moment. To get the nerve to actually cross that line.
You don’t push him or rush him. If he decides that this can’t go any further, you’ll stop immediately. You can see to the ache between your legs yourself.
But then, as his tongue rolls with yours, you feel his fingers at that button. Azriel pops it open. Your breeches part.
You lift your hips a little — a small encouragement. Az follows it. His touch is warm against your skin. His fingers slip past the waistband.
He pulls back to look at you. And he rasps, “Tell me what to do.”
“You can’t do anything wrong,” you pant. “Just…explore.”
He nods. Nods again. Draws in a slow, steeling breath.
And then he explores.
Not once does he look away from you. Not once, as his fingers slip between your folds. You bite down on your lip, not wanting to startle him. This is about him. This is about him.
His fingers dip tentatively through your damp heat. He drags them upwards, drenching himself with your wetness.
“You’re soaked…” He seems surprised by the fact. As though it’s unthinkable that your body would react in such a way to him. He explores more. “Really soaked.”
“Yes, Az.” You breathe. “That’s a good thing, trust me.”
He pauses his movements. And he’s entirely serious as he says, “I always trust you.”
And fuck, the sentiment makes you want to kiss him again, so you do. You yank him closer and slide your mouth onto his, and then his fingers are moving between your folds again.
They inch upwards with ease. And then one of those fingers is brushing over your clit.
You have no control over the way your hips jerk, bucking up into Azriel’s touch, or over the noise that rips from your throat.
Azriel pulls back to study you yet again. And repeats the action with more intent. “There?” He asks, and then adds, “Your scent reminds me of…of pears.”
“I don’t know whether I should say thank you, but yes, gods, there.”
Once more, his finger presses against your clit, and you’re gasping. His head cocks slightly, like he’s genuinely intrigued by your reaction. He watches you closely as he begins to circle the sensitive little nub.
You’re not wholly aware of the fact that you’re tipping your head back — not until Azriel is guiding it forward with his free hand and fastening your eyes on his once again.
“Can you look at me?” He clears his throat. “I just—want you to look at me.”
You swallow, and you nod. And you stay looking at him.
Even as his finger circles your clit again, and you feel the sensation like a lightning bolt through your entire body.
The pleasure is shocking. Your hips buck up into the sensation, and it seems to reward Azriel with confidence. His hand moves into a steady rhythm, his palm seeming to cup you and rub against you as his finger works at your clit.
You will not last like this. You never do. The stimulation is far too much, and you’re writhing beneath him, already feeling that tight, warm coiling in your lower belly — the sign of imminent release.
“Fuck,” you pant, rocking against Azriel’s hand. “Gods, Az, I’m gonna—”
Your words are lost, swallowed by his mouth closing over yours. Azriel kisses you, and he begins to move his finger in quick, flicking movements, and you’re gone, gone, utterly fucking gone, your body a swirling, weightless form as stars burst behind your eyelids.
The climax hits you so thoroughly that you shout into Azriel’s mouth, and you're grabbing at his shirt, simply needing to hold onto something as your hips undulate, desperate for more of the sensations he’s wringing from you and yet so incredibly sensitive that your body is already beginning to tremble.
And the second Azriel notices that you’re shaking, slumping back down against the couch cushions, his fingers cease their movements. He tears his mouth from yours and drinks in your expression.
“Are you okay?” He breathes heavily. “Was that…good?”
Good did not come close to describing what it was. There’s something magic about those fingers that still linger between your folds. You’re sure of it.
“More than good.” You gasp, your head falling back. “I just…need a moment.”
He pauses, before slowly, gently, tugging his hand out of your breeches. You think a whimper leaves you at the loss of contact. It’s an effort not to grab his hand and put it right back where you want it.
But instead, Azriel moves it up to your face. He brushes a strand of hair from your eyes, and his chest is heaving as much as yours as he leans down and brushes his lips over your cheek — an affectionate gesture. One he’s done a thousand times before.
It kind of…rips you from the moment, just a little. Reminds you that this is your closest friend who’s hovering above you. Who’s just made you come so hard, you saw stars. Who’s only doing this to learn.
You open your mouth — to say what, you’re not sure — but you’re stopped in your tracks by the door bursting open behind you.
You and Azriel move away from each other just as Cassian waltzes in. His lip is stitched up, but there are fresh marks at his neck; ones he seems incredibly proud of. You quickly fasten the button on your breeches before he can notice.
“Sacha and I worked things out.” He announces with a shit-eating grin. And then he pauses. Frowns. “Why does it smell like pears in here?”
azriel tags: @hanasakr @positivewitch @ruler-of-hades @brekkershadowsinger @nightscourtt @imperfect0angel @luna-1-3-5 @hyacinthoideshispanica @lucyysthings @lahoete @littlemoonash @blacksstarrynight @azriels-mate123 @ghostly-poetic @frieddesigninspiringquotesslime @a-frog-with-a-laptop @illyriansimp @morrie-rose @passingthroughfireandshadow @illyrian-dreamer @azrielsbabyg @96jnie @mich0731 @mulansaucey @truthtellerfanclub @acourtofbooksandmagic @insightsonmylife @basicbittywitty @curbside-cyanide @acourtofchaosandmess @123345566 @starrynights-frostbites @eos-princess @thesillyyogourt @ona-raising-07-l @acediahamartia @dontfollowmepleaseitsannoying @polli05927 @asdfjklbooks @azriel-luvr @amysangel @humanpersonlasttimeichecked @wildflowernightmere @audie-writes @aaronwarnerswifereal @starxqt @lulufairbank @laurzwrites @livelaughlovenestaarcheron @girlwith-thecinder-blockgarden
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For the director's commentary thing: I would love a director's commentary for Icarus on what went on in Red Bull HQ after Daniel came back, specifically when he went on the sim for the first time and it all went so horribly wrong- what happened that we didn't see in the story afterwards, how did Simon and the rest of the team cope? And how did Max react when he came back, did Daniel or Christian tell him what had happened?
Hahaha this is asking more for a Director's outtake rather than commentary, but I don't mind.
For the unaware, Icarus is a platonic maxiel wingfic where Daniel is pressured into trimming his wings for speed in McLaren, and has a long, slow fall before anyone notices. Much Maxiel angst and hurt/comfort and fluff.
Have an outtake from Max's POV that would have slotted directly after chapter 28 of Icarus:
=====
It's late when Max reaches Christian's country estate at last. He guns his engine and takes the imposing driveway up to the mansion at twice the proper speed limit, manicured trees blurring past on either side.
He's probably ruining the cobblestones. He doesn't give a fuck.
He should've insisted they delay Daniel's sim session until his flight landed. He should've-
Max steps back from the door, his hand smarting. He hadn't planned on banging at the door like that. He'd planned on ringing the doorbell. But every fibre of him is screaming for his flock; his wings feel like they are on fire.
One of the house staff opens the door. "Mr Verstappen-"
Max shoulders his way past. He's probably being rude but he doesn't care.
A moment, where he stands in the cavernous, marbled entryway, with sweep of the grand staircase up to the second floor and heavy oak doors leading in every direction.
Daniel. Where's-
"Max," a voice calls softly. "You're here."
Geri. Max snaps towards her. "Where's-"
"They're in the garden," Geri says, tilting her head towards the back of the house. "I think Daniel's alseep." She doesn't seem to mind the dirt Max is tracking into her house. But maybe she has people for that.
Max moves through the house like a dream. Entryway, living area, kitchen; through a set of french glass doors and into the back garden. The garden itself is dim, but there is a bonfire in the fire pit casting the grass in ruddy reds and yellows. Silhouetted in the flickering light are two winged figures - one with golden eagle wings crouching to tend to the fire, the other bundled in a blanket on a lawn chair, bandaged macaw wings painted sanguine by the light of the fire.
Daniel.
Christian stands as Max rapidly approaches. "Shh," he says quietly, holding a finger to his lips. "He's sleeping."
Max's ignores him. He drops to his knees next to Daniel's lawn chair, reaches out with a shaking hand to brush Daniel's curls out of his face.
Daniel looks paler than when Max saw him last a week ago. The firelight makes the shadows under Daniel's eyes look bruised.
Daniel shifts in his sleep, leans into Max's touch. Even in sleep there is pain on his face.
Max twists to look over his shoulder at Christian.
"Explain," he says accusingly. He needs to understand.
Christian had promised he wouldn't force Daniel's healing wings into the sim before they were ready. Christian had promised that the team would treat Daniel with the care and respect he deserved after what that other team had done to him. After he'd almost lost his wings.
"He reopened his wounds in a couple of places," Christian says. His eyes are fixed on Daniel's bandaged wings. "But the hospital said he'd be okay. They've stitched him up."
"What the fuck does that mean," Max hisses. "How did it even happen?"
Christian puts up his hands. "Simon tells me he pushed himself," he says. "Went through the break without stopping, and he wanted to get back in the sim so we could perfect the setup for Brazil-"
"Fuck off," Max hisses. "Don't - don't fucking tell me he was bleeding into the sim and nobody noticed."
Christian looks at him. There is grief and guilt in Christian's eyes, but over it all, bitter, seething fury.
"Max," he says. "None of us noticed for a whole fucking year."
All the air is punched out of Max's chest.
It's true. Max hadn't noticed his own flock slowly fading to nothing as Daniel hid his trimmed wings from the world. Max hadn't noticed Daniel entering a wing crisis that fateful week before Monza, either.
Daniel shivers under Max's palm. His breath comes short against Max's knuckles.
Max takes a slow, shuddering breath, takes up Daniel's hands in his own to warm them. They feel like ice in the cold night air, so Max sets a hip on edge of the lawn chair and pulls Daniel into his arms. He wraps his trimmed wing as far as he can around Daniel's shoulders and drops his chin into Daniel's hair.
Daniel relaxes. His breath evens out.
Max inhales, breathes in the warm woodsmoke of Daniel's hair. "I'm taking him home."
Christian frowns. "Don't be ridiculous," he says, and he is Max's boss again, sharp-tongued, effortlessly efficient. "It's late. Geri and I'll put you up."
Max gathers Daniel closer. "I'm taking him home," he says. "Back to my apartment in Milton Keynes. We'll fly back to Monaco in the morning."
Max's apartment in Milton Keynes; the spare room that has slowly morphed into Daniel's, with Enchante merch in the closets and preening brushes in the living room, a place that smells of flock.
Christian rolls his eyes. "Max, don't be-"
"Daniel," Max whispers, pressing his forehead to Daniel's temple. "Daniel, it's time to wake up."
Daniel stirs. He blinks up at Max, brown eyes turned muddy with painkillers.
"Oh," Daniel slurs. He scrabbles at the sleeve of Max's jacket. "Maxy."
"Yeah," Max says. His heart is expanding and shattering at the same time. "It's me. I'm taking you back to my place."
Daniel blinks rapidly as his bandaged wings shift behind him. His face blanches with memory and shame. "I'm sor-"
"No," Max says. "You can apologise later. Let's get out of here."
Christian stares between them. "You're fucking serious," he says disbelievingly. "Both of you."
Max doesn't bother looking at Christian. He pulls Daniel's arm over his shoulders and gets to his feet, dragging Daniel up with him. They make their slow, swaying way back through the house, Daniel's head lolling on Max's shoulder and his breath gusting over Max's chin.
Christian is talking rapidly with Geri now, but Max doesn't care. He brushes aside Geri's well-meaning hands and hoists Daniel down the front steps and into the passenger seat of his car.
"You know what? Fine," Christian is saying from the front door. "I can't stop you two being idiots. Fucking goodnight, then."
"Christian!" Geri admonishes. "Goodnight, Daniel, Max."
Daniel acquiesces for Geri to pat his cheek, and Max shuts the door as soon as Geri steps back. He moves past Christian as he circles the car to get to the driver's seat. Christian doesn't say anything, which is good. Max doesn't want to talk to him.
They pass the stupid marble fountain and pull out of the driveway proper, on past the artificially manicured trees and into the Oxfordshire night.
The motorway is nearly empty this time of night. Max takes up a steady pace towards Milton Keynes.
Daniel wraps his blanket more tightly around himself. Max reaches over wordlessly, threads his fingers through Daniel's.
Daniel sighs as Max's thumb moves over his. His breath evens out slowly, slows into sleep.
Max doesn't let go of Daniel's hand the entire way back.
======
For the uninitiated, you can read more of Icarus here!
Send me an ask with a scene or set of lines from any of my fics and I'll give you a director's commentary! Or, send in a ⭐star⭐ to have me select a section I've been dying to talk about!
(This particular ask ended up being an outtake, but director's commentary is more in the vein of explaining choices in wording or scenes, or explaining narrative choices)
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